I took these two photos a few seconds
apart on a Tauck tour last year to several countries in Europe. Judy and I have
had the good fortune to travel far and wide in our 45 years of married life and
we’ve had the opportunity to visit almost all the places on this globe that
were of interest to us. Last summer my legs started to act up and walking
became very difficult, but there was one last place I wanted to visit.
Can you guess where that was from the photos
(above) that were taken of the same railroad tracks, one taken with my back to
the sun (of a group of teenage tourists taking a photo as a memento), the other
facing directly into the setting sun ?
Perhaps this photo of the tracks from a
different angle and taken at a far different time will give you a hint.
Let me explain why I went
to visit Auschwitz and it’s sister camp, Birkenau. My mother’s family came from
a small town outside of Warsaw. They arrived in the US around the turn of the
century to escape from Russian pogrums (violent attacks on Jews and their
property). My grandfather and a son travelled first and sent back money for
their passage. My mother (Belle) and her mother (Ida) rode in the back of a
horse-drawn wagon (hidden under straw) to a seaport where they travelled in
steerage for the difficult passage across the ocean.
I’m Jewish and the last time I was in a
synagogue was for my bar mitzvah. ((Of course that doesn’t take into the myriad
times I’ve donned a yarmulke (skullcap) to attend friend’s weddings and
funerals.) I’m a devout atheist, but I’m proud to call myself a Jew and have been
haunted by the photos of the Holocaust. I’ve always wanted to put my feet on
Polish soil and particularly to visit Auschwitz to pay tribute to all those who
suffered and died there. That’s why we signed up for a tour of Eastern and
Central Europe, even though my walking was severely limited, and one summer’s
fine day there I was trudging through the infamous gate to Auschwitz.
I cried as I passed through the gate and leaned against a wall to steady myself. After I
regained my composure, I rejoined our tour group and our guide led us from
building to building. We were aghast as she emotionally described the many shocking
sights that passed before our eyes:
the wall where Jews
were lined up and shot,
the ovens,
vast collections of
eyeglasses, shoes, cooking utensils, human hair, valises (bearing the names of
the owners)---I glanced from one to another looking for a familiar name, much
as I now do with the morning’s obituary page,
and the buildings
where Dr. Josef Mengele conducted his infamous experiments on adults and
children.
I
picked up a stone,
which must have been trodden on by thousands of Jews on
their way to the gas chambers, to take home and put in my pine box when I’m
laid to rest.
A short bus ride took
our group to Birkenhau, where most of the atrocities took place. It was a
silent group in the bus.
I was too drained,
physically and emotionally, to walk through the camp and so I just sat down on
the railroad tracks and tried to imagine what it was like for the thousands
upon thousands of Jews who walked past the very spot on which I sat.
I’d seen captured
Nazi films of the barracks, which stretched off in the distance, and which showed
skin-and-bones figures lying on triple–decker wooden beds. The sight has
haunted me ever since.
I couldn’t make it last 200 yards and relied upon my
memory to conjure up the sight.
How do I write a
fitting ending to this story?
I have no idea.
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